Normies: The Lord Of The Rings
by Sensical Deficit
Summary: What if a multitude of fictional worlds co-existed with our own? Wizards moving to Narnia, Middle-earthians who refuse to stay on their own turf, and a zombie-infested America are the LEAST of our problems. What's a normie to do? Crossover. LotR-centric.
1. Introduction

The world has gone to shit. Nowhere is safe; nowhere is normal. Everthing is fucked up and weird and I cannot decide for the life of me if I would be better off with those sods in America having their brains chewed out by Walkers. At least the zombies are having a whale of a time.

Currently, I am sitting in a cafe, and there are a number of things that are so terribly wrong with the picture. For example, there is a vampire working behind the counter. A _vampire_. Of course, their kind are all very welcome in the world since they came out of the coffin. I, personally, was not entirely in favour of them being legal citizens. Who wants equality when you're fucking dead? And who the bloody hell _gives_ it to the fanged-out bloodsuckers? I blame them for the the whole zombie thing in America, as politically incorrect as it sounds. No, it would not surprise me in the slightest if this "virus" stemmed from them and their ... issue.

And these fucking Elves! I see them everywhere. Technically, they're not supposed to wander from their little section they call "Middle-Earth", but they don't seem to care. They don't really do much wrong, to be honest, but their perfection gets to me. They make me feel like a neo-Nazi on Judgment Day. Thankfully, they're the only inhabitants of Middle-Earth that I do find irritating. The Hobbits, Dwarves, and Men aren't so bad, even if they do seem to think that they're living in the middle ages.

The witches and wizards tend not to bother me either, I suppose, although I have been called a "filthy muggle" on more than one occasion. A lot of them moved to some twisted little place called Narnia after they were outed. Through someone's wardrobe. I like to imagine the day it happened - just a bunch of angry wizards lining up in a spare room to climb into a dusty old wardrobe. Some fucking tollbooth they've got there. Traffic must be a nightmare.

Speaking of traffic, it took me three hours to get to work this morning. One of those crazy aliens flew in and crashed into a lamp-post. He was a creepy-looking thing, mind. The person in the car next to me said he was a "Gungan". I just thought she sneezed; she didn't seem too impressed.

And yet, with all of these people - these _creatures_ - coming and living or visiting, no one will fix that _damn_ problem in America. They're always on the news, too. Bloody _Walkers_. And there are still people living there, trying to survive on their own because no one else wants to get involved. Well, except for those idiots who keep dressing up as superheroes. Five of those fuckers died last week.

Finally, there are people like me: the "normies", as they call us. Living, breathing, average homo-sapiens without a real place in our own world anymore. A tangled mess in the limbs of a life. A pile of shit on the limbs of our own.

"Vinnie! You'll _never_ guess what I just heard."

"What did you just hear, Mary?"

"You remember all them people with those weird abilities who came forward last month?"

"Yes, Mary. I do."

"They've got a name for them, now. Mutants. There's _loads _of 'em."

_Oh, here we fucking go._


	2. The Normie & The Roommate

"_Today in New York thousands of the living dead, known more copiously as 'Walkers', were accidentally exterminated in the city's centre. It has been assumed that the Walkers wandered into a flammable liquid storage and ..._"

"Poor gits."

Mary Stone is my room-mate; I prefer to call her that rather an a friend. Perhaps, in another world, the two of us could have gotten along swimmingly and exchanged daily gossip or reminisced about our different upbringings and pranced through fields of gold singing "Kumbaya", but alas, this was not another world, and so such things were to be nothing more than shuddered at. More realistically, perhaps if she was not quite so obnoxiously loud and myself not quite so misanthropic, similar ideas could have prospered.

"What d'you reckon, Vinnie? Think they'll die out?"

'Vinnie' was the obscene nickname she had coined from the very first moment I introduced myself. It was all so coy and cute that it made me want to vomit, but she relented, and has been calling me by that ridiculous appellation ever since.

"They're already dead, Mary."

Mary is the kind of girl who watches the news every night, despite her complete indifference to international affairs. In the past few months, I've noticed that she is far more interested in our new vampire neighbours. Steven and Damien Albatross or something. I told her that they would sooner gouge out her carotid artery with their teeth than take her for a romantic dinner, and her reaction was nothing more than a contented sigh and the utterance of that blasted Edward Cullen prick.

"When do you start work today?"

I _know_ that Mary doesn't care when I start work.

"Night shift."

"Mm."

"Why?"

"Just curious."

You know what? Mary and her fictional fucking fairy can-

"Why are you curious, Mary?" I say her name in such an obviously patronising way, it almost makes me sad that she doesn't seem to get it. Naïvety is most definitely her strong suit.

"Oh, I was thinking about having someone over, that's all," she sighs. Why is she sighing? I have not the slightest idea, but it sounds demure coming from her twisted mouth.

"Ah. Well, have a nice night." Try not to fall out of an open window.

"Wait!" Her sudden cry alarms me. "Don't you want to know who?"

Well, to be perfectly honest, my dear, I don't give a flying-

"Who?"

"D_a_m_o_n," she answers, drawling the vowels like a smitten prepubescent.

"How lovely. Have a nice-"

"_Wait_!"

Oh, for the love of God.

"Don't you want to-"

"Actually, Mary, what I want right now, is to keep my job. To keep my job, I need to be punctual, and to be punctual, I need to leave the house on time. And, Mary, what needs to happen for me to leave the house on time?"

Her eyes are on the ceiling, and her forehead is creased in thought. I decide to help her out.

"For me to leave the house on time, I need to cross through the front door. And that shit ain't going to happen if you keep nattering away about the dead guy next door."

She stares at me, not in the least offended. Then, her face breaks out into a grin and she says, "Okey-dokey! Have a good night!"

Finally, I am able to pull down the handle and step outside.

"You too!" _You necrophiliac_.

* * *

><p>I understand that the both this chapter and the introduction have been disgustingly short, but I intend for them to get longer as I get into the story.<p>

The beginning of the quest of the Ring should probably commence within the next two chapters, starting with the Council of Elrond. In the next chapter, it should become apparent why both this original character and the fictional characters from the likes of True Blood, Harry Potter, Star Wars, and X-Men will be joining the Fellowship on their journey.

Another quick thing: the reason that this is not in the crossover section of the site is because I felt that this installment of "Normies" was going to be too focused on the Lord of the Rings. The second installment will probably be under the Harry Potter category, and the third under The Walking Dead. Whether or not there will be a fourth is still a mystery to me, as it depends on the reception.

If anyone out there actually finds themselves interested in this story and would like to know the general direction that both this and the other parts are heading in, let me know. I won't be giving too much away, but it's just so that it can help you decide whether or not this little series will be something that you're going to want to read. If not, that is absolutely fine, and feel free to tell me if that turns out to be the case. A little criticism goes a long way.

Hope you're all having a lovely day!


	3. The Normie & The Hobbits

My boss tells me to smile when I'm serving customers; it's harder than it sounds. You see, in today's fragile economic state, no one wants to splash out on employee wages. Business is slave labour, and slave labour is acceptable in these modern times. It is also acceptable to hire overqualified idiots for dead-end jobs, so long as they work for the minimum.

Long story short: I work in a place that sells cheese sandwiches. Not special cheese sandwiches. Not magical cheese sandwiches. No, just your ordinary cheese sandwiches. Only they taste like shit.

"Welcome to Chebreader Cheese. You cut the bread, we cut the cheese."

Ah, yes, not only is the business name entirely tacky and ridiculous, but the slogan holds a slang term for flatulence. There's your money-maker.

"Merry, did she just say-?"

"Yes, Pippin."

Upon closer inspection, I realise that the customers who have approached the till are not children, as I had originally thought, but very small men. Hobbits, to be precise.

Seeing a Hobbit is rare, so I've heard, even in Middle-earth. Apparently, they like to keep to themselves. I can relate.

"Can I help you?"

"Ah, yes. What do you have here?"

Now, I've worked here since I was seventeen years old, and never once have I been asked that question. "Bread and cheese. Cheese and bread. Cheese sandwiches. Sandwich-"

"Wait, what was that first one again?"

"Pippin, I think she was being sarcastic. They only serve cheese sandwiches."

"Only serve ...? Is there good business in that?"

Oh, Jesus, he's actually asking me. The Hobbit is asking me a question about business.

"I'm assuming."

The Hobbit named Pippin frowns in a way that reminds me all too much of Mary as he tells me, "But you shouldn't assume."

"Yeah, yeah, _ass out of you and me_. I've heard it before."

"Oh, I wasn't going to say that," says the Hobbit, peering up from the front of the counter. They really are tiny; it's terribly odd to stand near one. And they have hairy feet! Holy shit!

"I, er ..."

Hairy feet. Hairy feet. Fuck, this is weird. And why is he staring at my name-tag as though it's written in Greek?

"Lucky? Am I saying that right?"

"It's Lucy, actually."

"Oh. Anyway, I suppose we'll have to settle for the cheese sandwiches then, won't we, Merry?"

"Yes, we will. Eight cheese sandwiches, please."

"Great. That's eleven-twenty."

"Eleven-twenty what?" asks the one called Merry.

"Eleven pounds ... oh, never mind." Darren can dock my wage later. Money truly does not seem worth the hassle at this moment in time. "Bread's over there. Cheese is over there."

"Oh, _look_, Merry!"

"I didn't even see it!"

Of course you didn't - you're a head shorter than the counter.

"Thank you, Lucky!"

"Lucy."

The Hobbits disperse, and for the briefest of seconds I consider helping them reach the food in case they should struggle with it, before I remember that I am equally as bitter as the coffee I drink and shrug it off. Still, maybe I'm wrong to be so harsh and judgmental about all-

"Hey, normie! I need a refill!"

Fucking alien freak.

"I'm working!" I call back, my voice a low hiss. "_Knobhead_."

Yes, I should just accept the fact that I'm British and am therefore unable to embrace change.

"Lucy?"

Oh, shit.

"Hi ... Darren."

"Did I just see what I think I saw?"

Most likely. "Well, Darren, it depends on what you think you saw."

"I _think_ I just saw one of my employees give free food to a couple of kids." His brow is stern, arms are crossed, and shoe is tapping irritating _thuk_ sounds on the linoleum floor.

"They weren't kids, Darren, they were Hobbits. Just take it out of my pay."

"Oh?" he simpers, quirking an eyebrow. "What is this we have here? Lucy Vincent being a good samaritan? Dare I say even _empathetic_?"

"On the contrary, that was Lucy Vincent being impatient. Now, if you'll excuse me ..." I jerk my head towards the line of customers.

"Of course," he says with a nod. "Just don't let it happen again, Lucy, or there'll be hell to pay. Or should I say, your job."

"No, I think 'hell' was pretty accurate."

He smirks one last time and disappears into the side staff room, or as he prefers to call it, his office. Darren likes us to think he sits there and either does a decent amount of work or takes care of his budding social life, but we all know that the only thing he does on that computer is play solitaire and lose. Every single time.

"All right, who's next pl-"

A scream. No, this is not a scream. This is an intolerable sound: a high wailing, ricocheting from wall to wall, and drilling into my ears with such a force I am sure they must be bleeding. It twists and grinds and drags me to the darkest, dankest corner of my mind. Hope is dimished. Fear is prevailing. Consciousness is flickering.

Do they hear it, too?


	4. The Normie & The Wizard

"_Oh_, _my cranium_ ..."

I have died once before. When I was nineteen, I went to visit my family, which involved driving around a particularly rocky cliff area next to the ocean. It was winter, therefore the roads were inpredictable, and a man driving a truck the opposite way lost control of his vehicle. I swerved to avoid a collision and ended up falling from the cliff.

The drowning part was euphoric; I'm certain that it is the best way to die, so long as you don't panic or struggle. Your lungs fill with water, and your brain cannot access any oxygen, blurring your perceptions. You feel light and ironically airy, as though you're dreaming. Then, your vision starts to fade, and so do you. Death by asphyxiation. Of course, I did not die - not properly. The man driving the truck must have called for help, and my death only lasted for three minutes and thirteen seconds. The resuscitation proved to be not quite as pleasant as the drowning.

Anyway, that experience is how I know for certain that I am not dead at this minute. My eyes are closed, and I do feel somewhat inebriated, yet I remain perfectly alive. Also, everything_ hurts_.

"It's time to wake up, child. You have been unconscious for three days."

In the given circumstance, I'll excuse the less-than-flattering endearment of 'child', for I find myself now looking up at an elderly bearded man wearing what could very well be a dress.

"Who the bloody hell are you?"

Perhaps I could have worded that in a polite, more appropriate manner. This man, despite his age, carries a sort of authoritative atmosphere that chills me to the bone. And I would hate to know what he's capable of doing with that staff.

"They call me Gandalf the Grey," is his arguably ambiguous response. "And I know all too well who you are, Lucy Vincent."

Frankly, I'm offended. I do not appreciate that tone in the slightest.

"What did I do?" I ask with a sigh. "Who did I kill?"

Gandalf the Grey chuckles, "You did nothing, and nor did you kill anyone." He studies me carefully, still wearing an amused smile. "I must say, I am quite surprised that you have not yet commented on your whereabouts."

Oh, fuck me. He's right. Where in the beard of Jesus am I? Clearly, I am in a room, albeit not one I recognise in the slightest. Light is pouring in from what are either windows or empty doorways, with each arch decorated with carvings and twisting statues of people. The bed it, admittedly, rather comfortable - far more so than my own. The bedsheets are golden and made of a soft silken fabric, whilst the headboard bears a wooden statue quite like the others in the room, resembling a beautiful woman with open arms. There are also wooden candelabras, alight, conveying hard workmanship that has entirely paid off.

Well, shit. Maybe I am dead.

"You are in Rivendell," the old man tells me, inclining his head towards the outdoor area.

"Is that a fancy word for 'heaven'?"

He laughs, "No, my dear. You are not dead at all. We brought you here to Middle-earth for your own safety."

"Middle-? _Seriously_? Why would you do that?" In a second, I am aware that he did, in fact, already state the reasons for me being in Middle-earth. "What kind of safety issues prompted you to do something like that?" I correct myself.

"The Nazgûl," he replies, his voice dark. "Nine servants of Sauron, who feed on the power of the One Ring."

Am I supposed to know anything about this? When I was in school, we learned about Egyptians and the Holocaust, not the ancient battles of Middle-earth. Still, it can't hurt to nod along so he doesn't think I'm as ignorant as I happen to be.

"You are nodding," he states. "You know of this? Of our history?"

For fuck's sake man, Lucy! You motherfucking idiot!

"I ... no. I nodded because I was listening."

He does not look convinced at all, but continues, "There was a time - and a _very _long time ago indeed - that one of your people located the Ring, and thought nothing more of it than a trinket. He took it for himself, and the Nazgûl hunted him for it. The Nazgûl, it would seem, can sense your relation to this man."

"Even after this long?" I ask, bewildered. "Talk about a grudge."

"The Nazgûl do not forget in terms of the Ring."

"I still don't understand, though. Why me, exactly? I mean, this guy must be at least twenty generations back in my family tree, right?"

"Around about that, yes. My dear, there is very little that can be explained about the Nazgûl and their motives, other than that they are completely driven by the Ring's power."

"But I don't have the Ring, so why _bother _venturing from Middle-earth to search for me?"

"Well, the fact of the matter is that they did not," is his answer. "Venture from Middle-earth, that is. There was an ... _incident_, that expelled them downstream and towards your country. They must have caught on to the scent of the thief's living descendent and temporarily changed course. Their primary target, however, is still the current Ring-bearer."

"It would appear then ... Mr Gandalf ... that I'm safe from here on out. If they are, as you just said, targeting some unfortunate bastard with a Ring."

"Yes ... and no. You are still in a great amount of danger, Lucy Vincent. The Nazgûl will still hunt you, whenever they are distracted. It would seem that the best thing for you at this time, would to be to travel _with _the Ring."

"And how the _fuck _did you come to that conclusion?"

He seems unperturbed by my foul language; "Your presence and the presence of the Ring-bearer together should confuse them."

"'Should' being subjective term."

"We plan to set out from Rivendell with the intent of destroying the Ring," he goes on, obviously ignoring me. "Once the Ring is destroyed, you will be safe. If it is any consolation, my dear, no one wishes for you to be placed in such a sitation, but it is completely necessary. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a Council to attend."

"Hold on just a cotton-picking minute! You expect me to go with you to destroy-"

"Yes, I do. I know that you are upset, but you will come to understand. Of that, I am certain."

Gandalf makes to leave, standing and heading for one of the open archways until I speak once more.

"What ... what Council?"

"The Council of Lord Elrond. We are going to discuss the matter of the Ring."

"Am I not invited?"

"I am sorry to say, Lucy, that you are not. Women are not permitted in the Council."

"How refreshingly misogynistic."

"Unfortunately, it is tradition, and there is nothing I can do to change that. There is another young lady down by the gazeebo who was also refused entry. She made quite a fuss about it. Perhaps you could introduce yourself; she will be joining us on the Quest."

Gandalf leaves after that, not allowing any time for me to ask another question. I fall back onto the pile of pillows behind my head and glare at the ceiling, wondering if going to see this 'young lady' will be work the risk.

* * *

><p>Thank you to the lovely two people who have reviewed, particularly TheOddestParadox. Flattery will get you everywhere.<p>

Can anyone guess the identity of the "young lady"?

Kudos if you can.

Have a nice day!


	5. The Normie & The Council

The blonde under the gazebo is positively fuming. She is pacing back and forth, spitting and hissing at no one in particular in a way reminiscent of an angry cat. Her hair bounces furiously around her shoulders with each step she takes, and her eyes are narrowed to a point that makes them invisible to me at this distance. And I do keep my distance, for it seems to be the safer option. I see no reason for confronting the young woman at this point in time, and so simply watch from the cover of the bushes behind her until I find myself able to make my presence known. I may or may not have forgotten to mention that I am a complete and utter coward when it comes to such displays of anger.

You see, this is not a you-took-food-from-my-plate kind of anger. It is not even a that-time-of-the-month kind of anger. No, this is the fury of someone who has stepped on all of the lego pieces in the world. Consecutively. And I do not want to interfere with that.

Of course, as fate would have it, I have no choice but to interfere with the blonde's ranting and raving. Because, as fate would have it, I am a noisy fucker who apparently cannot remain silent even under the direst of circumstances.

"Who's there?"

I mean really, Lucy. You're a fucking genius. Go to the _bushes_ for a quiet place to hide.

"I, ah, me."

As I said, fucking _genius_.

"And who the fuck are you?" demands the blonde, folding her arms across her chest and tapping her foot impatiently on the floor of the gazebo. I'm pretty sure she's American. I'm definitely sure that I should be worried.

"Lucy. I like your shoes." I wouldn't wear those shoes if they were the last pair of shoes on earth.

"Thanks," she says, though it's quite obvious that she does not believe my compliment for a second. "You're not an Elf."

"I'm not."

"So, they brought you here too, huh?"

"I think they hit me over the head with a blunt object."

The blonde's eyes widen as she says, "Oh?"

"It's kind of a grey area."

She purses her lips, unfolds her arms and extends the right towards me. "I'm Sookie. Sookie Stackhouse." She withdraws her hand after the greeting gesture and glances around. "They wouldn't let you into this Council they're havin', either?"

"Nope."

"Fuckin' sexist pigs," she seethes. "I'm not even supposed to be here. All because fuckin' vampires can't come out in the sun ..." She shakes her head and makes a noise of irritation. "You're a normie, right?"

"Yeah," I reply, wondering about her implication of vampires. "I'm kind of relieved, actually." When her expression shifts, I clarify for her, "That I'm not the only one."

"Oh. Yeah, me too." She sighs. "Bein' the only girl would make this trip a hell of a lot harder. Unbearable, even."

I furrow my brow. "I suppose, but I was talking about being a normie."

"Oh!" Sookie Stackhouse emits a small laugh, and runs a hand through her hair. "I'm not a normie." For a moment, she looks genuinely sympathetic. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"You're not?" I ask, crestfallen. "Then, what ...?"

Come on, hit me. Alien? Witch? Mutant? _Werewolf_?

"I'm a fairy."

Please, Stackhouse, tell me you're fucking joking. Go on. Tell me. Say it. Right fucking now.

"A fairy?"

And, to my utter dismay, this fucking blonde under the motherfucking gazebo smiles and nods.

"Cool." I might cry. "So, uh ... no wings?" Do I _really _want to fucking know?

"No wings," she laughs.

Before I can burst into tears, I hear two very familiar voices from the exact place I had emerged from after blowing my cover.

"A fairy?"

"Yes, I think that's what she said, Pippin."

"_You _two?"

I stare in disbelief as the two Hobbits from work appear before me once again, looking none-too-ashamed of themselves for spying - not that I'm one to judge. Pippin looks almost frighteningly happy to see me, wearing the brightest of smiles on his face as he turns to his friend and tells him,

"See? I told you it was Lucky."

"It's Lu - oh, never mind." He can call me Lucky if it pleases him. I glance at Sookie, who appears bemused by the entire situation.

"Meriadoc Brandybuck," his friend formally introduces himself, giving both Sookie and I a little bow. "And this is Peregrin Took."

"Well, I'm Sookie Stackhouse. I can see that you've all already met each other."

"I work in a cheese place," I explain before I can help myself. "I think they're the ones who hit me."

I wince as Pippin cries out, "_Hit _you? We did no such thing!"

"You fainted," is Merry's resolve.

Still, I incline my head towards Sookie and whisper, "I'm not so sure. They're shady folk."

"What did she say, Merry?"

"I don't know. You'll have to ask her, Pip."

Why the blazes do they talk about me as though I'm not around? I can only wonder ...

"Why aren't you guys at the Council?" Sookie asks them, crouching down to their level.

"We're not invited."

"Top secret."

"Jesus, who _is_ invited to this thing?" I mutter, earning a shrug from Sookie. The Hobbits, on the other hand, care to reply.

"The Elves."

"The Dwarves."

"Some Men."

"No women."

"Gandalf."

"Another wizard."

"I think I heard an Elf say something about aliens, too."

"And obviously there's Frodo."

"It's kind of like watching a tennis match with you two," I interject.

"What does she mean, Merry?"

Oh, not again. I'm _right fucking here_.

"It's not fair," says Sookie, before I have time to wring Pippin's neck in my frustration. "We're supposed to be goin' along with them, and they won't even let us in on where we're goin' or what we're doin', just because we're female."

"Ah, we're not-" Pippin starts to say, but I interrupt.

"Well, I know what we're doing and where we're going, but only in summary. We're supposed to be destroying a Ring in some fucking volcano."

"A volcano? Really?" asks Sookie. "That seems a little ... creative."

"A little?" I question, raising my eyebrows.

"Okay, a lot."

I shake my head; "We need to find a way into this Council. Tweedles, do you know where it is?" I turn to the Hobbits, who seem to waver at my politically incorrect way of addressing them.

"Oh, yes."

I blink at them. "Care to share?"

"We could get into a lot of trouble with Gandalf and Lord Elrond," Pippin says to Merry.

"I'm not above the act of torture for answers, you know," I warn them, and they straighten up immediately.

"Come on, then!" exclaims Pippin, hastily walking away from the rest of us.

As Merry catches up with his friend, I hear him whisper, "I don't think she meant it, Pippin."

But the two of them continue ahead anyway, with Sookie and myself walking a few paces behind with small, satisfied smiles painted across our faces.

_Time to gate-crash the Council_.

Have you ever done something you knew was wrong, like sneak out of the house on a Friday night, or skipped school to go and hang around with your friends? I haven't. I've never liked doing something that could upset or anger and authority figure, because quite frankly, they scare the shit out of me. I blame it on the fact that the only people who ever went easy on me when I was growing up were my family. My parents were the kind of mellow people who didn't really have set rules. And, in a way, that turned me into a better-behaved kid. It meant that I wasn't so obsessed with defiance and rebelling against the system or whatever the hell kids like to say these days. I mean, I wasn't perfect - fuck, I was far from it. As a teenager, I developed a foul mouth that would probably send most parents raging. But people, in the end, are more intimidated by words than by actions; they hurt the most. Forget that _sticks and stones_ shit, because psychological damage is irreparable, and it was the only way that I could have the upper-hand. It's cruel, yes, but I needed to protect myself. And in self-defense was the only time I ever did anything that was blatantly "wrong" or "immoral". But, naturally, I couldn't defend myself from those who held authority over me. And so, I tiptoed around them like I was walking on eggshells.

Now, here I am, deliberately disobeying a wizened old wizard, and let me tell you, this internal conflict is torturous.

"Can you see anything?" Sookie whispers from beside me.

Alas, I can see very little. In front of me, someone's oversized chair (dare I say _throne_, the thing being so large) is obstructing my view.

"Elves hear everything," Merry warns us, and we both shut up immediately, for indeed, there are a few Elves looking our way. We shrink back behind the pillar and hold our breath.

When nothing happens, I slowly exhale and peer my head around to get a better look, and find eyes directed towards a wizard who, upon first glance, I believe to be Gandalf the Grey. Then, however, I see that he is wearing robes and a hat of a different kind, as well as a pair of half-moon spectacles. As I push myself slightly further, I see Gandalf sitting beside the Hobbit I presume to be Frodo.

It is quite a sight, I swear. Elves, Dwarves, Men, Hobbits, wizards, and - _oh_, well, they must be the alleged "aliens". Actually, they look human. Perhaps Pippin and Merry were mistaken. They just look like the blokes who work for the aliens.

One of the Men looks to be getting himself in for a spot of bother; everyone seems to be getting quite impatient with him. He's heading over to ... ah, that must be the Ring sitting on top of there. What _is_ the bellend doing?

"_Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul_!"

What the _fuck_ is happening here? I do _not_ like this one bit!

"Never before has any voice uttered the words of that tongue here in Imladris."

Ooh, that must be their chief ...

"I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond, for the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West! The Ring is altogether evil!"

The Man who turned this whole thing to shit does not seem to care at all, and so the argument continues, with more others getting involved. I start to lose interest and turn to look at Sookie and the Hobbits, all of whom seem to be listening intently. I suppose I always have had a short attention span.

However, the cry of a Dwarf soon catches it again, after he makes an almost amusing attempt to destroy the Ring with his axe. Wait a second ... is that broken? Holy fuck, that Ring broke his axe. Wow. Oh, I shouldn't laugh. No.

"The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Glóin, by any craft that we here possess. The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came."

Mount Doom? How fucking original.

The Lord of the Elves, or whatever the fuck his title happens to be, goes on to say, "One of you must do this."

"_What_?" I splutter, managing to maintain a whisper. "_One_ of us? That isn't what the wizard told me ..."

"_Ssh_!" Sookie cautions me, and I hush.

There's a commotion now; apparently, the Dwarves don't like the Elves, and vice versa. In fact, looking around I would say that a lot of these guys have beef with the Dwarves.

"I will take it!" the Hobbit, Frodo, call out above their loud, argumentative voices. "I will take the Ring to Mordor." He hesitates for a brief moment, glancing around at their faces. "Though ... I do not know the way."

I watch as Gandalf the Grey takes a step towards the young Hobbit, and places a hand on his shoulder. "I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear."

Another man, seated quite closely to where we all remain in our hiding place, rises. "If by my life or death I can protect you, I will."

How sentimental. But seriously, I feel like this is the Council of the Beards, and that's the real reason why Sookie and I weren't invited.

Oh, now everyone's jumping on the bandwagon. This trip's going to be like travelling with a fucking circus troupe for the love of God.

"Hey!"

Is that another Hobbit? Oh, dear. It is.

"Mr Frodo's not going anywhere without me!"

I feel Merry and Pippin shift from behind me, and warn, "Don't even think about it."

"Wait! We're coming, too!"

Oh, at least I tried.

"You'd have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us!"

"Anyway, you need people of intelligence on this sort of misson ... quest ... thing."

"Well, that rules you out, Pip."

Oh, fu-

"Someone else is behind there!"

-ck.

"Come forth! Now!"

I glance at Sookie, who stands first and emerges from behind the pillar. I linger just a bit longer.

"Come _on_!"

"Ow, that's my arm you-"  
>"Ah, Lucy Vincent and Sookie Stackhouse," muses Gandalf. "I might have known."<p>

"I have no idea how I got here," I'm lying through my teeth, glancing around in feigned confusion. I sincerely hope that my acting has improved since high school.

"Are you kiddin' me? This was your idea in the first place!"

"I'm sorry - I'm unfamiliar with this game of pin the blame on the normie."

"Ladies, ladies," says Gandalf. "This is a Council, and you should behave accordingly."

"Why? We weren't even invited."

"Who are they?" one of Merry and Pippin's "aliens" questions, his sights shifting between both myself and Sookie.

Because, you know, Gandalf didn't just happen to say both of our names a few seconds ago.

"This is Sookie Stackhouse." Gandalf makes a gesture towards the named. "She is a fairy, here on behalf of William Compton, the old vampire king of the state of Louisiana." He turns to me. "And this young lady with the colourful vocabulary is Lucy Vincent."

Charming.

"Why is she coming with us?" the blonde Elf asks him, and to be honest, I'm offended.

"She has a history, as it would happen. She may prevent any more unwanted encounters with the Nazgûl."

Again, _may _being the subjective term.

"Will she not simply slow us down?"

That's rich, coming from the motherfucker who set off the eerie chanting a couple of minutes ago.

"That depends," is Gandalf's reply, and he sends a smile my way.

"On what?" asks the man.

"On how vindictive she feels after such questions of her capabilities."

I've changed my mind. I may just love Gandalf the Grey after all.

* * *

><p>So, here we have it. Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Gimli, Boromir, Gandalf, Legolas, Aragorn, Albus Dumbledore, Qui-Gon Jinn, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Sookie Stackhouse, and Lucy Vincent, all together on a merry little journey. Not to mention a new arrival, who they'll meet along the way (and who I'm very excited to write into the story because I find his character hilarious).<p>

I'll be writing much longer chapters from now on.

Thank you to QueenSword for the review! I appreciate it.

And if there's anything you don't like please let me know, because every writer could do with some criticism.

Hoping you all had a lovely Christmas!


	6. The Normie & The Glowy Stick

"What is it that ails you, my lady?"

Now, let me just state right now that never before in my life have I been addressed as such by another human being until arriving in Middle-earth. It is, to be honest, incredibly archaic, and a little demeaning. Also, I feel as though I ought to point out to this prick of a fellow that I am not _his lady_, for no feministic reason, but simply because I do not like or appreciate it. Especially from dear lord _Boromir_, who I personally believe has a name to rival an evolved Pokémon.

It has been like this since the Council of Elrond; the men have been asking a lot of questions, though more of me than of Sookie. Because, of course, the lovely Sookie Stackhouse is a _fairy_, a special snowflake of a woman who does not require any masculine assistance. But, alas, poor feminine little Lucy Vincent is a fragile soul, at risk of even the most ridiculous and unlikely misfortune. For example, _God forbid_ that a blade of perfect Elven grass should come and slit her throat in the Spring breeze. And _God forbid_ that little Lucy will stumble on the smallest pebble and set her neck when she hits the ground. And _God forbid_ that she should launch herself from the tallest tower in Rivendell to _end_ this _unbearable_ torture.

"Existence ails me," I tell him after the red anguish has faded from my cheeks.

"What an odd thing to say."

Though, I am no longer paying any attention to Boromir of Gondor, and am instead walking at an effective yet unhealthy pace away from the gardens.

It is not that I entirely hate Rivendell. On the contrary, it is a very beautiful place to be - far more so than any I have ever encountered in England. I have to admire the craftsmanship that has gone into the architecture of the outpost, especially considering that the Elves have the opportunity to journey elsewhere, to a place called Valinor. I cannot even begin to conceive how lovely it would be there, from what Gandalf has been telling me; and he _has_ been telling me a lot. He seems to think that it is incredibly important for me to gain a fuller understanding of Middle-earth and its inhabitants and history. I suppose that I have been quite vocal with my ignorance and biases, and that this may be what has led to his insistence on relaying the old stories to my ears.

Still, I am finding it difficult to properly engage with these people. You see, I am not the only one who dwells on their ignorance and biases; there are countless stigmas attached to being a normie. And ... and ...

Oh, dear. Where am I? How long have I been ...? This place is a fucking Labyrinth. I take everything back. Rivendell is not lovely. It is not beautiful. It is a fucking maze, and I hate it. All right ... be logical ... be rational ... survey your surroundings ... find something familiar ... oh, yes ... I see something familiar. Trees. Trees. Trees. And more fucking trees.

Okay, I hear water. Is that good? No. No, it's not. Because this is Middle-earth, where you hear water all the fucking time. _No_, calm down. I refuse to get frustrated. My blood pressure is already off the bloody charts, I'm sure. All righty. Yes. That's it. Just think of your health. Think of your - _what in the name of God is that noise_? That shit ain't water!

"_Ah_!"

"Are you _mad_?"

"Me? You're the one wielding a _glowy-stick_!"

Naturally, this is the best way to make friends with robed humanoid alien creatures.

"A what? This is a lightsaber!"

"Is that what they call them at the raves of distant galaxies?"

Right, so I have not really communicated with Beard and Braid thus far. They have been, to my knowledge, occupied with other things. Like robots and shit.

"You are the English girl, aren't you? Lucy?"

Oh, how flattering. Braid knows my name. At least he isn't calling me "lady".

"At your service." Yes, a nice little drunken curtsy will suffice, I think. Not that I am drunk, just to be clear - it's simply how I always appear to other people. Something about my stumbling and staggering manner. "Where's Tall and Beardy?"

"He's talking to Lord Elrond. Although we _are _happy to help those here in Middle-earth, there have been some problems in our own system. I'm sorry that we were not introduced sooner. My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Ah, outstretched hand. Lovely. I'll just ... shake it. Limply.

"I heard that the others are being difficult," he tells me, wearing a small smile. "I suppose that it's all custom, here. Women are not quite as restricted in the Republic. And I do not think of you any less for being, as they would put it, normal. I doubt that Gandalf the Grey would allow you to come if he thought you were incapable."

Oh. This is nice.

"Thank you ... Obi-Wan. It's ... refreshing, to hear that."

"I'm sure it is. But, I do think the others will come around, eventually. Judging from what I witnessed at the Council, your wit is sharper than their swords."

"Well, I ..." Awh, now he's gone and made me blush. Look! Getting all embarrassed over here. And a little chuffed.

"If you don't mind my asking, Lucy, what are you doing out here?"

"Escaping," I reply. "Don't tell."

"Ah," he chuckles, "I see. You should avoid wandering too far. I'm sure you can take care of yourself, but I've heard that Middle-earth can be rather unkind to those unfamiliar with it."

"I can relate."

"I thought you might."

Hm, it seems that Obi-Wan is one smooth-talking inter-galactic homosapiens. Frankly, I'm just glad to have met someone who isn't a proud, misogynistic blast from the past. Dare I even say that we could become _friends_ in the future? Potentially, my only one.

"Do you need something, Lucy?"

"What? Oh, no." Liar.

"Are you sure? Forgive me if I'm mistaken, but you look a little bit lost."

"Oh, you're not mistaken."

"Then, you do need something."

"A satellite navigation system?"

"Some _help_, Lucy."

"Ah. That. Well, I could probably find my way back-"

"There's no shame in needing help."

"Says the man in a man's world."

"I think you ought to forget about the standards set in Middle-earth for just a moment and walk with me back to the House of Elrond."

Now, I could sit here, my stubborn self, and sulk until the sun sets. I truly could. It is in my very nature to do such a thing. _But_, there is the question of whether or not I want to. Which I don't. I _don't_ fancy the sitting, and sulking, and waiting. And so, I decide to muster up some humility, instead, and walk with Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Braid of Flattery and Wielder of the Glowy Stick, back to the valley.

And the feeling is not unpleasant.

* * *

><p>Okey-dokey, I apologise for my long absence. Basically, I've just been incredibly busy as of late. However, writing is what keeps me sane, so I'm planning to post more and more of both this story and of <em>Wilson<em> over the coming weeks.


	7. The Normie & The Misquotation

The goodbyes were almost painful to watch; it almost frightened me, at the time, because until then I never truly believed our quest was going to be quite so dangerous. Whilst the others were thanking the Elves for their hospitality, I was watching the exchange between Aragorn and who could possibly be the most beautiful woman - or Elf, in this case - I have ever seen. It wasn't the kind of beauty to make a person jealous - which is bizarre, given that I _am _a female and therefore am extremely susceptible the claws of the "green-eyed monster" - but the kind of beauty that ought to be valued, and even cherished. I mean, despite the bitter looks I am currently sending Legolas every single time he opens his mouth, I have to admit that the Elves are _not_ ill-natured. Sure, a little arrogant, but I would be too if I were a paragon of everything bright and wonderful in the world. And the Elf - the one Aragorn was speaking to - was most definitely a paragon of blue skies, waterfalls, and bunnies in the spring. Still, there was something about her that was different, though I can't for the life of me comprehend what it is. Perhaps it was the effect she seemed to have on the no-nonsense Man, whose stoic demeanor could throw even myself off. Or perhaps it was the fact that I'd never seen an exchange like it, so intimate and yet so chaste. I felt even a little bit ashamed for watching. Thankfully, Aragorn was in no mind to pay any attention to what _I_ was doing.

I wish I could still say the same thing.

"Lucy, could you keep an eye on your feet, and not the trees? The Hobbits have much shorter legs and they are doing a much finer job of keeping up."

Dickhead.

"Well, my good man, this is what happens when you take me on the scenic route."

The two wizards chuckle, but Aragorn looks less than impressed. I swear I just saw him glance down at his weapon. And he wonders why I'm walking several paces behind him? Batshit. He's batshit insanity in its finest form.

So far, by which I mean in the half an hour since we left Rivendell, our journey has been quite uneventful. Boring, if I may so say. Not even Braid and Beard have been the least bit entertaining, although I have to admit that the Dwarf, Gimli, is growing on me. The only time I've been the least bit engaged with what the others are saying or doing is when Gimli is talking to - or rather, insulting - Legolas. I'm thinking that, under the circumstance we're allowed to rest in some kind of Middle-earthian inn, ol' Dwarfy and myself should have a drink. Not that I really like to drink, but I'm probably going to need it.

"_Lucy_."

"Sorry, my legs stopped."

You know, I can't help but wonder if they're forgetting something - something important. I mean, I'm not sure they remember the part when I'm a fucking normie, thus I cannot travel however many hundred miles on _foot_, with scarce breaks. It is, to put it simply, illogical. Completey and utterly illogical. In fact, I still fail to see the logic in bringing me along in the first place. Unless these Nazgûl have a mome complex, I doubt they would be rendered witless by my presence around the Ring. I sense an alterior motive, Gandalf. What are you hiding?

Now, how is it that I address the group?

"Ahem."

Nothing.

"Ahem-hem."

This is bullshit - everyone knows what an exaggerated clearing of the throat means.

"_Ahem_!"

At last, Gimli turns his head. "Is something wrong, lass?"

You mean other than what appears to be either complete ignorance or mere unwillingness to acknowledge my throat-clearing and thus, my desire for attention? Oh, nothing.

"I have a query."

"And what is it?"

No need to sound so eager, Arascorn. "Can we not get a bus? Or a train? Or a ... hovercraft?" I don't mean to look at Beard and Braid when I say this, for the fear of political incorrectness, I really don't. It just happens.

"You would have us risk disturbing the entire of Middle-earth _and_ informing our enemies of our position for the sake of your laziness?"

"Laziness? I am a human being, not a camel! I'm not meant for this kind of physical labour!" Labour? Is that right? Yes, I would call this labour. "Besides, if we had a space shuttle, we'd have that ridiculously-troublesome Ring of yours in the crater of that fucking volcano before the wicked witch of the west could say _fly, my pretties, fly_!"

"Please, tell me you are not referring to _Sauron_?"

"Actually, I was talking about _The Wizard Of Oz_. And misquoting it, too. It's _fly, fly, fly_, but I find the improvisation to be much more creative."

"Gandalf, please, tell me there is more to-"

"There is more to this young woman, Aragorn, than you see. There is more, perhaps, than you will ever see, because you are not looking properly."

Oh, just fucking marry me already, Gandalf. You know you want to.

* * *

><p>Right, so I decided that I am no longer going to make unrealistic promises; I will be very busy in the coming weeks.<p>

**However**, I would very much like to get the next chapter of this up within the next few days, and intend to do so, as this chapter is quite short and nothing of particular interest has happened.

I've organised the plans for this story properly, now, and I quite like where it is headed. Currently, it's looking to be a five-part series, rather than a trilogy, and following those will be a collection of one-shots, until I finalise _Normies_ altogether with what I'm thinking will be a two-shot.


	8. The Normie & The Creeper

"Lucy, I understand that you hurt your ankle, but we _must_ keep moving."

Aragorn is a bitch. I have noticed, after much surveyance, that he has the empathetic spectrum of a wasp. I did, indeed, hurt my ankle. And I am in a _great deal_ of pain. In fact, I may have torn a ligament. But Aragorn does not give a tiny little shit about that at all, and is in truth glaring at me as I limp along this godforsaken ground. I might add that my winces of pain with every step have not wavered him in the slightest. Yes, dear Aragorn is a _fucking bitch_.

"I am _delicate_."

"Are you not always muttering about how you wish to be treated as our equal? That you are no such a 'dainty young lady' who ought to be a victim of chivalry?"

"I liked you better when you weren't talking."

"Oh, then I may reciprocate."

Jesus Christ, I might have to punch him in the face. And if that doesn't work, he'll be returning to his Elven princess as a eunuch. I swear upon this holy earth—

"Perhaps, we _should_ rest," says Gandalf. "It will give us all some time to rest. After all, hours have passed since Lucy last requested an interlude in our journey."

Before I am able to stop myself, I am pulling what is quite possibly the most immature face I have ever made in my life, and for once I do not blame Aragorn for the scornful expression I receive in return. I could apologise to him, probably, but he wouldn't accept it. I'm not that dull-minded. I don't think. I hope.

"So, my dear, why don't you tell us a bit about yourself?" It is the other wizard who has asked the question, peering at me over his half-moon spectacles with a caring sort of twinkle in his eye.

"Please, Albus, I think we have heard enough of the words 'I' and 'myself' from Lucy in the time we have known her."

Ouch, that actually hurts. I've been called a lot in my life — most deserved, I can admit — but never once has someone so openly suggested that I'm self-absorbed. But … he's not right. No, he's not right at all. Or … is he? Am I self-absorbed? I have been complaining since our departure, though not using those particular personal pronouns — not really. Once or twice. Or a few times. Or several. But I never wanted to be here. It … it is _entirely_ justified, my complaining.

"Well, Aragorn, if I understand correctly, Lucy will not be speaking now for a while." Gandalf looks at me when he says this, though his expression is unreadable to me. "Let us rest."

"Lucky works in a place that sells cheese sandwiches, Professor," says Pippin, far too cheerfully for my liking. "That's what she was doing the day we met her. Although, her uniform is less than flattering."

Watch where your words wander, Took.

"Cheese sandwiches? Not the profession I imagined you to be in."

"It does explain her temper, though," Beard replies to Braid in a hushed tone.

"Oh, I don't think so! I'd be very happy to be working in a place with so many sandwiches."

Pippin, you are wonderful in all the weird ways.

"What does your father think?" questions Boromir, his eyes on me.

How the hell am I supposed to know? We're in Middle-earth — I don't think the signal will be too great for me to make a family call.

"Her parents do not know. There is little need for them to, either. It is my understanding that parents do not take as active an interest in the lives of their children in England — at least not as they do in Middle-earth."

Again, ouch. My parents _would_ care, I'm sure. I mean, I'm not a kid, but they'd probably be interested to know that their daughter is currently travelling with a sideshow across Middle-earth to destroy a troublesome piece of jewellery that, to be quite frank, I find it impossible to believe one would actually wear. It's _gold_. And _tacky_. Bollocks, now I sound like Mary.

_Mary_!

"Gandalf! What did you tell Mary?"

"Is that the young woman who resides in your house?"

"My room-mate, yes."

"She did not present me with the opportunity, I'm afraid. There was a young man in your house, and she seemed far too occupied with him for me to explain your whereabouts."

If they do it in my fucking bedroom I swear I will kill her and commit an act of _damnatio memoriae_ on her grave.

"To be honest with you, she probably won't even realise I'm gone."

"You should surround yourself with better friends," advises Pippin. "I was always told that if they don't care then they're not worth your time."

"And I was always told take what you get and ask for nothing more." How terrible must that sound to someone of the Hobbits' moral standing? I should try to make it a little bit better. "If you aim low, you're never disappointed!"

And, well done. Well done, you stupid cow.

"Your parents truly taught you to believe that?"

Oh, great. Now even _Aragorn_ seems concerned. "No, that's not … that's not what they taught me. They just tried to get me to understand … that things don't always go the way you want them to, and that you have to be accepting of certain … misfortune." Like a shit job selling cheese sandwiches. "It's quite odd, really, given how much I complain about everything."

"And so, you simply tolerate a friend who could not care less of the perils you face, and an occupation which you loathe?"

"I'm _realistic_. It's difficult to get a job nowadays, so I'm grateful for any at all. And … I have a certain way of treatings others … that many don't like. A particular sense of humour, if you will. Sarcasm … even in England, isn't as appreciated as you would think."

"You do not think to treat others with a bit more courtesy?"

"No, and then I'll never let them down. _Logic_."

"Lucy."

"What is it, Aragorn?"

"You are perhaps the most dishonestly honest individual I have ever met."

* * *

><p>Most everyone else is asleep, with the exception of Legolas. I am not sure if it's merely an 'Elf thing', or if he just agreed to keep an eye on things whilst we all rested. Regardless, I can barely keep my eyes closed, let alone take sufficient rest. I feel too vulnerable out here in the forest, and never have been one for sleeping outdoors. Sometimes, maybe, when I would go camping as a child. But not now. Not when I am so aware of the beasties that could be lurking amongst the trees. And when it's so fucking cold.<p>

"You should rest."

Ah, evidently Legolas is aware of my conscious state. Maybe if I close my eyes and pretend to—

"You cannot feign sleep!"

Bastard's laughing at me. Can he read my mind or is this another 'Elf thing'? Eh? Can you? Can you hear what I'm thinking, Lego-less? Cats. Marshmallows. Cauliflowers in the spring. That creeper behind the tree.

_That creeper behind the tree_.

"_Who's there_? Show yourself!" Oh, good — Legolas sees it, too. I haven't yet lost my mind.

The others are all awake, now, weapons raised and ready to attack. I hope they don't mind me … as I just … edge to the back … and observe the situation as it unfolds.

"What the hell kind of freakshow have I just stepped in to?"

Oh, it speaks! And it's a man. With … claws? _Claws_?

"Is this what Freddy Krueger was like before the death by first degree burns shit?" Ah, wait. They're not going to understand that reference. Or, Sookie might. Yes, I think she does! She looks just as concerned as I do.

"Freddy Kr—? Kid, I ain't some homicidal sex offender from a seventies horror movie!"

At least _he_ got the reference.

"Who are you and what is your business here?"

"Name's Logan, and I got no business here — just a little coincidence." He glances between the lot of us, appearing well and truly confused. "Seriously, who the hell are you guys?"

"You are not of Middle-earth."

Jesus, give the bloke a break, Aragorn. I'd rather take a chance with him and his claws than you and your fucking perplexity issues.

"I'm Canadian. But those fucking Walkers put me in a bad place. Needed to get out. Is no one going to bother telling me what in God's name you all are? Two old guys, four kids, a Dwarf, two sensei, two knights of fucking Camelot and a couple of broads? Am I missing something?"

I think I'll forgive you for the 'broad' comment for that pulchritudinous description of our situation, good sir.

"Can we keep him? I like him."

"Lucy, I truly worry for you."

Really, Aragorn? I just thought you _truly_ wanted to put that sword through one of my vital organs.

"All right, 'Lucy' — that's a start. Care to tell me the rest?"

Introductions! Introductons everywhere! I don't even know who's saying what. But his claws are gone, and no one appears to be maintaining their previously aggressive stance any more. Oh, goody. Gandalf has suggested he accompany us until we reach somewhere of significance. This will be very fun indeed. Sorry, Gimli, but it appears that I have a new comedic favourite. And his name is Logan. Anything but normal, and also anything but dull.

Lovely.

* * *

><p>I'm thinking about lowering the rating of this story, because I understand that people tend to associate an 'M' rating as containing sexual content, which may be a deciding factor in whether or not they wish to read it.<p>

Any advice on this would be much appreciated. Does the language in _Normies _deserve an 'M' rating?

Also, I'm sorry about the wait. There have been family issues and exam stress and all other wondrously horrid happenings.

However, have a good day!

Another note: I recently discovered the formatting tools on this website, which is brilliant, because I find that the screen-wide Verdana makes for quite an eyesore.


	9. The Normie & The Oil Lamp

How do you know when you've begun the slow yet inevitable descent into madness? How would a psychiatrist explain it to me? _Well, Lucy, when you start to hear voices, or see things that aren't there. When your mind is telling you to do things you probably shouldn't, particularly things that might cost other people dearly. Or when you start to believe that everyone is out to get you, and each little event is a personal attack on you. _I think that's what most people would tell me, if I asked. But not a psychiatrist. No, they would have to be subtle, shitting metaphors and technical terms like a fucking horoscope, never quite achieving anything with their words at all. _Madness is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result_. Thanks, Socrates. I'll be sure to write about you in my next book.

It's getting colder here in Middle-earth, and I think it's hitting Sookie the hardest. She told me a few days ago that Louisana was never as bad as this, and that she thought she might be coming down with something. I felt for her - I really did. I doubt that there would be anything to make this journey worse than the common cold. And, quite surprisingly, I don't dislike Sookie; not at all. In fact, we've formed a kind of united front. It's nice, actually, given my experience with Mary. But Sookie is fiery, rather amusing, and not thick as a post. And it would seem that I'm not the only one to have noticed.

Logan, our newcomer, both a bane and blessing in my life. He's crude, snarky, foul-tempered, and _brilliant_. Within a day of him joining our merry little troupe, him and Aragorn were at loggerheads. It has been, to say the least, the highlight of this trip so far. Of course, the others intervened. But mind you, I was more than prepared to let them go at it and cheer from the sidelines. And so it's rather unfortunate for me that Logan has lost all interest in Kill Bill Volume 3, and has been watching my dear little fairy friend with a keen eye.

In fact, he's doing it right now.

However, I know now that it's not what I had originally thought it to be. I confronted (for lack of a better word - I actually sauntered over and started drawling at him in such a coy voice I wanted to punch myself) him yesterday about the situation, and thought momentarily that he was going to kill me. But he just shrugged his shoulders and told me that she reminded him of a kid he knew before the Walkers claimed the States. All quite innocent, really, but I couldn't help but notice his concern when she fell ill. He carried her for an entire thirty-six hours through the snow.

Ah, the snow. Yes, I do believe it's going to be the death of me.

"Lucy, are you cold?"

Why, no, Aragorn - I'm toasty as a roasted marshmallow. But I can't find the will to snap at him. Which he obviously finds to be rather worrying.

"Lucy, you're shivering. Logan?"

"Pick me up, Krueger, and you're dead meat," I hiss at him through chattering teeth.

"Oh, come now, Miss Vincent - there's no need for that," says Dumbledore, in a voice much too hearty for my liking. Furthermore, I do not _like _you withdrawing your wand and pointing it at my head, good sir.

"I ..." Oh. Oh, nevermind. I quite like this. I _very _much like this. Like my body is an oil lamp. Yes, I feel like an oil lamp.

"Pardon my asking, professor, but what exactly have you done to her?"

"Oh, just a little spell. It should help her cope with the cold."

Yes ... an oil lamp.

* * *

><p>I feel rather dazed.<p>

"Lucy?"

Tired.

"_Lucy_."

_Exhausted_.

"Lucy!"

And now I feel a hand across my face.

"Did you just _hit_ me, Obi-Wan?"

"You fainted."

"_Clearly_."

The night has given us a starless sky, wretched and unforgiving to my eyes. Infinitesimal, vulernable - that is how I feel in this place. A cavern, I can see as my sights adjust to the dim lighting. So perhaps there is still hope for stars.

"Are you okay?"

Honestly, I'm unsure. I can barely recall my time under Dumbledore's spell, other than that one thought I could never seem to throw from my mind. _Oil lamp_. How ridiculous. That couldn't possibly have been his intention.

"I'm fine."

When I look over my shoulder, I see Sookie surveying me with an intent gaze. She looks better than she did before, though still a little pale. I offer her a smile, and it seems she hasn't the energy to return it.

"You look like death," she tells me, wrapping her arms around her knees.

"I've looked worse. What are they doing?" I nod my head in the direction of Gandalf and Dumbledore, who are standing in front of a large door in the wall. I say 'door', but to be quite frank it appears to be nothing more than a frame of light and Elvish script.

"They can't get in. Go figure."

"In? In where?"

"The Mines of Moria, lass," says Gimli, approaching us with a sort of pride that I would imagine to greatly irritate the blonde Elf standing by with the wizards.

"I thought Gandalf didn't want us to come this way?"

"He doesn't," replies Obi-Wan with a sigh, "but the mountain collapsed. That was when you fainted. Do you not remember?"

"I don't remember much at all."

"Qui-Gon had to get you out of the way. That spell of Dumbledore's left you quite ... indifferent to impending death."

"Right. No one let that bloke near me with his wand again."

For a brief moment, I consider talking to Dumbledore about this and expressing my lack of gratitude, but think the better of it. He was just trying to help, after all. He wasn't to know that the mountain would collapse. And, you know, nearly kill me.

"Do they need a key?" I ask, rather stupidly.

"For the door? No. There's an instruction written in Elvish."

"Have they considered following the instruction?"

"Lucy."

I sigh and press on, "What _is_ the instruction, exactly?"

"_Speak friend and enter_."

"All right, then. _Friend_!" Holy echo, Batman. "Anything?"

"You're an idiot."

Thanking you kindly, Sookie.

* * *

><p>I'd like to take a moment to thank the wonderful QueenSword, who has been absurdly tolerant of my scarce updates and continues to review this story so kindly. Your criticism shall not go ignored, I promise you.<p>

And I'd also like to thank those who've added this story to their alerts, because any and every type of support I can get is much appreciated.


	10. The Normie & The Giant Squid

For hours, we have been sitting outside what Gandalf maintains to be the entrance to the Mines of Moria; I remain dubious, naturally, of both the door and our whereabouts, for I cannot imagine Dwarves to be remotely fond of riddles, let alone to have such a penchant for composing them. It would seem at this point that Gandalf has spoken every potential password available to his own mind, with the occasional remark from Gimli and Legolas — I say remark, rather than suggestion, because the word 'suggestion' would imply some degree of helpfulness. Evidently, the Dwarf and the Elf are about as helpful as an inflatable battle-axe. Of course, I have absolutely no intention of verbalising this opinion, for the Dwarf himself happens to be wielding a battle-axe of his own. And, though it may be incapable of destroying a band of gold forged in the fires of a volcano, I've no doubt that it is perfectly capable of crushing the skull of a young English woman like a mortar and pestle.

Much as little Samwise is crushing my heart at this very moment, as he says his goodbyes to that pony of his, affectionately named Bill. Aragorn says that he would know the way back to the Shire, but unless Bill happens to have a homing pigeon complex, I find that rather difficult to believe. Still, I would hope that he does, for as cruel and heartless as some of my company deem me to be, the thought of anything happening to that little pony is too audacious for me to bear; and poor _Sam_, should anything happen — his heart would shatter, and that is something that no one, particularly a good-natured Hobbit such as himself, should ever have to endure. Now, I find myself fearful, more truly than any other instance in our journey thus far, for the fate of our party. One of us is likely — near certain — to die, at the very least. I can only wonder who it will be.

Otherwise, Merry and Pippin seem to have sought amusement in flinging pebbles into the vast pool of water from the shore. Quite clearly, Aragorn is having none of this. I can barely hear what he has to say on the matter, but there is little scorn in his voice, only caution.

There is a commotion by the door, now. Frodo appears to have deduced that this is, in fact, a riddle. I could have told him that hours ago; this is Middle-earth, after all. This land _shudders_ at the thought of something being straight-forward.

"What is the Elvish word for 'friend'?"

_Riddle_, Master Baggins. There is no way that—

"_Mellon_."

Well, fuck me. "I said that hours ago!"

"You spoke the word 'friend' in your own tongue, Miss Vincent," says Dumbledore. "And, forgive me if I am mistaken, you had little intention of actually opening the door."

"Oh, trust me, I had _every _intention of opening that damned door."

"Quit your grumblin', Lucy. The last thing they need is another reason to leave you outside."

"They wouldn't," I challenge, earning a chuckle from Aragorn, which sounds more sinister than good-humoured to my ears.

Once we are inside, I half expect the door to close behind us, yet it remains entirely open for retreat. This, I find to be more suspicious than if it had indeed enclosed us in the mines. I have to admit that this feels strange, even perplexing, and in no way that I have felt since we departed from Rivendell. Should the mines be so empty as this? I mean, I wasn't expecting a welcoming committee, but this is ... inauspicious to the core. Not even amongst a party of presumably competent fighters do I find any comfort.

"Soon, Master Elf," Gimli begins, chipper as ever, "you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves. Roaring fires, malt beer, ripe meat off the bone! This, my friend, is the home of my cousin Balin, and they call it a mine. A _mine_!"

Blowing on the rough-hewn crystal atop his staff, Gandalf illuminates the chamber, and I instinctively take hold of Sookie's upper arm. She tenses at the touch, before reaching her own hand to clutch the front of my shirt. It is warmth in an ominous setting, this mutual preparation to remove the other from any presence of danger.

And then the warmth is evanescent. I do not care that I have a friend in my vice-like grip, or vice versa; I do not care that I am surrounded by armed men, many with experience beyond my comprehension. I care that I am standing in a dimly lit chamber, littered with the corpses of hundreds, skeletons which lay like ash between rusted armour and weapons of war.

"This is no mine. It's a tomb."

I am no sooner stricken by the cry of Gimli, whose grief is unrivalled by that which I have ever encountered in life. He _knew_ them, these Dwarves. These _corpses_.

"Goblins," comes the assessment of Legolas, as he casts aside an arrow with great distaste.

The tumult began.

"We need to get out of here, Gandalf!" insists Qui-Gon, and the chorusing buzz of both his and Obi-Wan's weapons fill the air.

"We make for the Gap of Rohan! We should never have come here ... now, get out of here! Get out!"

No one hesitates against Boromir's command, and we retreat, some of us stumbling, toward the door. I turn on my heel, unsatisfied by the pace of our mindless backward steps, and rush forward with Sookie in tow. She gives a yelp at my strength and speed, most of which is surely adrenaline, before settling into a pace alongside me.

"Wait a second!" I arrive at a halt, panicked. "Where are the Hobbits?"

"_Frodo_!"

Sookie stops, too, wide eyes set on the Hobbit ensnared by three large tentacles belonging to what I can only describe as a giant squid, having remained impartial to this particular area of lore in Middle-earth; aquatic creatures were not on my agenda until this particular moment in time.

"Ah, shit, _shit_ ..."

Sookie calls for Aragorn as Sam does, whilst I search for something — anything at all — with which I could plausibly aid Frodo, and destroy that foul-looking kraken of the deep.

Sword? Unlikely. Dagger? Even less so. Bow? _Bow_. Right ... how did those archery lessons go again? Arrow in like this — nope, no, not like this ... _fuck_, this bow is _useless_. Exactly how big are these goblins, anyway? Arrow in like — _yes_, stay — and aim, aim, _aim_ — draw back to mouth, and ... and ...

Tentacle? Close enough.

"Into the mines!" cries Gandalf.

Two arms snake around my waist and pull me back inside the chamber, precisely as a storm of rocks collapse from the roof, entombing us all with the ghosts of a goblin victory.

* * *

><p>Well, this is certainly long overdue. I hope that there are still people who perhaps have an interest in this story.<p>

I plan to continue writing the next few chapters tonight, and so you may get a sudden double burst of updates over the next couple of days, save for Christmas.

Speaking of which, happy holidays to you all!


	11. The Normie & The Mines

Relief is an odd thing. It washes over in waves, pulsates from head to toe, and you can slowly feel your muscles relaxing, relaxing in that checkered pattern across your shoulders, your arms, unknotting that wrench in your stomach, and weakening your legs. You worry that you'll sink to the ground, like a dove felled in the eye of a storm. Worst of all, you feel that small tinge of sadness, that even though the panic is flooding from your bloodstream and peace can now course through the veins, there is no one there to catch you. Because no one else is relieved. They're clever, they're prudent, and they know that the worst is yet to come. But it's all you can do to grasp at straws.

The crystal atop that staff of Gandalf's is alight once more, and all I can see are shadows, scattered amidst bones and weaponry. And I know that I've complained throughout our entire journey so far, but now all I feel is despondency. That washes in waves, too, and far more inexorably than relief.

"Thank you," I say to my saviour, the one who pulled me inside before I could be collapsed under a vicious landslide. "That's twice, now. I hope I can repay the favour, one day."

"Let us hope you never have to," replies Qui-Gon, and I sink that little bit further.

Aragorn calls to me, then, "Lucy! Come!"

It's sad, that he doesn't know when to stop acting like a king and start acting like a human being. I don't envy you, Aragorn. I truly don't; because sometimes, you need to kick a storm up from your heels, hurricane through tempest of grief and rage, and sometimes you need to take your back to the composure of water, drifting from shores in a calm. And sometimes ... well, sometimes, you just need to cry.

"Quickly and quietly, if you please."

But you're still a knobhead, Kill Bill.

I catch up with Dumbledore, then, wishing for the previously unsought comfort of his voice. He has kind eyes, as though he wears his very soul in them, and although I see some regret there, and some great fear that I'm not sure I want to unearth, yet the kindness of an old, wizened wizard is little more than I can ask for, at this moment.

"Hello, Professor."

"Miss Vincent? I assume you wish to scorn me for my attempts to bewitch you earlier. Please, allow me to say beforehand, that I am dreadfully sorry. Magic is a strange thing, here in Middle-earth; it simply refuses to behave."

"I'm not angry with you, Professor." Half-true. I mean, it's not like you nearly got me killed or anything. "It's just that I think I heard Gandalf saying that we're going to be in here for a few days. It seems like a good opportunity to better get to know my company."

"A splendid idea, indeed. Although, you've had much time to properly acquaint yourself with us all, Miss Vincent. Is there something in particular that you would like to know?"

I pause in thought for several moments, then barely crack a smile. "Tell me about your school? With all due respect, it seems like a catastrophe waiting to happen."

"I fear that you are right, Miss Vincent," sighs the wizard. "These are very dark times, and not merely for Middle-earth. Sauron isn't the only Dark Lord attempting to make his return."

"But he's the priority."

"Yes. This problem with Sauron is reaching its fullest height, and before I can ever hope to stop the other wizard of whom I speak, we must first eradicate the threat he poses. It would be greatly unfortunate to have both Dark Lords running amok at one time, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose you're right, yes."

"You're agreeing with me?" asks Dumbledore, and he looks surprised. "My colleagues didn't. And the Minister of Magic thinks that I've gone mad with age, leaving my school like I did. Though he still sees no threat."

"Then perhaps _he's_ gone mad with power," I mutter.

"You're exactly right, my dear!" he says, his voice cheery. "Mad with power indeed!"

I leave him, following a bright farewell, and make to speak with Gimli, who appears as grim-faced as I've ever seen a person in my life. Should I offer my condolences? It would be respectful, I suppose, but I don't want to trigger anything. Then again ... perhaps he _does_ need some comfort ... _I_ certainly would.

"Are you all right, Gimli?" I ask, and receive a second look of surprise that evening. "Your people? They—I—well, I'm sorry. For your loss. It's ..." This is going remarkably well. Why did I say goodbye to Dumbledore, again? "No one should have to go through that, I mean to say."

"That's kind of you, lass. But they will be avenged—I'll see to that. Even if I need to clear our every Orc and Goblin in this damned mine!"

Now, hold on just a cotton-picking second, right here. "Do you reckon they're still here?"

"Aye! There's not doubt about it, they'll be here."

"And what kind of numbers are we talking, here?" Ah, shite. You always have to ask, don't you, Lucy?

"Hundreds, at least! Do you think anything less could have slain so many Dwarves?"

"No, no! I don't ... I wasn't trying to suggest ..." Bugger it all. "I like Dwarves! I like Snow White! I like—"

"I'd imagine snow would be the last thing you'd like after the turn you took with the mountain," says Pippin, sidling with Gimli and I.

You know what, Chekhov? Stick to your guns. Or don't. I don't want another fiasco with a giant squid.

* * *

><p>Gandalf was right—our journey through the mines has been no short one. Miraculously, I haven't yet taken to sulking again, or my complaints on lack of food, water, and rest. I've managed to distract myself with aimless banter, mainly involving the Hobbits; amusing little things, they are. Mad, yet very amusing indeed. Frodo was struggling to lighten up, even with the chatter, and so I sat with him on the third day of our journey. I asked him about the Ring, though I did not dare ask to see it. Although, it would seem that I didn't need to; he removed it from its sheath behind the front of his shirt, and I could see it only through the glinting of the dim light from Gandalf's staff. Why he thought it safe for my eyes, I could not understand, and then he told me.<p>

"It does not effect you," he had said, and I had quirked a startled brow. "The Ring. I see no change in you."

"Well, I'm not one for power," I joked, offering a crooked smile. "I don't think that anything could be more ill-suited for me, actually."

Frodo had blinked at me then, with a frown to crease his brow, and he said, "Then perhaps you should carry it." He held it out to me in the palm of his hand, yet I made no move toward it.

Instead, I shook my head, that small smile still on my lips, along with the words, "I don't want it to change my mind."

And he had taken it back, just like that, and we spoke no further of it. I noticed, afterwards, that Gandalf's eyes were on me, observing like a strange and curious creature. I was unsure of how long he had been watching, but had to wonder if, had it been for a while, he believed I would take it. But I had spoken to the truth to Frodo, and my thoughts are no different now than they had been at the time of our exchange.

I find myself still wondering back to that expression he had worn. What _was_ it? Satisfaction? Relief? Or had it been as plain as my initial interpretation: curiosity?

Anyway, I digress.

"I have no memory of this place."

Sometimes, I have to wonder of Dumbledore is dying to deduct house-points from Middle-earth for all of Gandalf's casual little—_argh_! _What the hell is that thing_?

"Sookie!" I whisper urgently. "Sookie, Sookie, Sookie!"

"_What_?" she hisses, and I recoil in fright at her tone.

"Down there! I think there's a little grey emaciated fellow down in that cavern!"

"Are you out of your fuckin' mind, Lucy?"

"Quite possibly, we've been down here for days." I peer over the edge, and consider calling out to one of the others for assistance. "I'm like a flower; without a bit of sunlight I—"

"Are you tellin' me you get out often? Because I don't think you do."

"_Look at it_!" I exclaim in a hushed voice, pointing a quivering finger in the direction of the creature.

"That's it, we're goin' to stretch our legs. All that blood is goin' straight to your brain, and I hate it when you think."

"Stackhouse, I am _not_ shitting you, right now! _Look _at it!"

Logan joins us, aiming a frown at me and demanding, "What're you squawking about, kid?"

"E.T. in the cavern! E.T. in the cavern!"

"Lucy, what've I told you about referrin' to Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon with shitty sci-fi culture?"

"Oh, never mind! I hope he eats you all." And I'm welcome to make as many pop culture references as I please, Miss Stackhouse.

* * *

><p>Sorry if this feels a bit like a filler, but I wanted some more interaction between Lucy and the other characters. Also, I think that the next chapter will be a long one, and I didn't want to have an egregiously long chapter on my hands by combining them both together.<p>

Hope you had a wonderful Christmas!


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